


I wish you can see me, but you can't.

by bombhumpa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Cat, Character Death, Death, F/M, Funeral, John's limp, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Feels, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related, Spirit - Freeform, Suicide, Trigger Warnings, You will cry buckets and buckets, tags not in chronological order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombhumpa/pseuds/bombhumpa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> I see you every day. I'm just a spirit, but I live in our flat. You haven't touched any of my belongings, it's a human error, John. You should clean, but you just can't bring yourself to do it.</i><br/>I know Mycroft looks after you. Mycroft is also mourning, but not as much as you do. I often see you with the gun in your hand. I'm always at your side, even when you're sleeping. Even when you least expect it. <i></i></p><p> </p><p>  <i></i><br/><i>(SHORT drabble to cure my writer's block. May or may not have worked. Ugh.</i><br/>Written from Sherlock's POV, after the fall.<br/>You may or may not break into tears.<br/>Give it a try and I'll owe you forever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wish you can see me, but you can't.

I met Moriarty on the roof, just like it was planned. Everything had been planned into the smallest detail, _everything_. At least that was we'd thought, Mycroft and I. We had been wrong.  
 "You need to jump, Sherlock. You need to kill yourself to save your friends", the criminal had said in a sing songing tone. I did not have friends, at least that was what I'd thought. I had thought it would be impossible for him to get to me that way, but then there were you, Lestrade, and even Mrs. Hudson. Suddenly I realised how much I cared. That was why I did it, why I jumped from that roof.  
 It was just as he'd told me it was going to be. It was like flying. My whole life didn't flash in front of my eyes, I guess that was a relief.  
 I hit the ground, it didn't hurt. Dying was easier than falling asleep.  
 I found myself looking down at my own, dead, body. I saw you, you told them to let you through, because I was your friend. You took my pulse, of course you weren't able to feel it. The truth hit you hard.

I see you every day. I'm just a spirit but I live in our flat. You haven't touched any of my belongings, it's a human error, John. You should clean, but you just can't bring yourself to do it. Your limp is back, it hurts to see it. I am so sorry. I know Mycroft looks after you. He is also mourning my death, but not as much as you do. He and I are a lot alike. I often see you with the gun in your hand. You ask yourself how it will feel to die like that, pull the trigger, a single bullet. You never do it. I'm always at your side, even when you're sleeping. Even when you're least expecting it.

You're seeing someone, her name is Mary. It's making you good. You look healthier. You eat better and you have a social life. She cares about you, and you care about her. She has made your limp disappear again, just like I did that night when we chased the cab. She follows you home every night. You date for a while, and then you move in together.   
 You visit my grave every month, leaving a single red rose every time.  
 She has a cat. It's black. It often sits on the floor in front of my chair. You always tell it that a great and clever man used to sit there.  
 One day when you come home from work it's sitting in my chair. Mary makes an attempt to make him -yes John, it's a he- jump down on the floor, knowing how much I had meant for you. You tell her that it's okay.  
 You rename the cat after me.

Weeks passes by, even months. You still haven't forgotten about me. You and Mary are engaged, I'm happy for you. Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night, screaming my name. I'm always there for you and so is Mary. Once again, she cares about you a lot. She takes you in her arms and protects you, she's your angel. I wish you can see me, but you can't, and it really hurts.

The cat has grown quite fond of you, I can't blame him. I did the same. I had lived my whole life thinking I was resistent to such feels. Slowly you took the walls -that I had spent so many years of building up- down. I let you close, and just look what I got for that? Remember what you read to me from that book with clouds on the cover, that it's a good life. I didn't understand back then, but now I do. The little time I got to spend with you, I will never forget it.  
 The gun is hidden in the back of your drawer. You've almost forgotten about it.

The news about Mary's cancer hits you both like a punch in the face. Remember when I asked you to punch me? It wasn't like that at all.  
 "A month", the doctor says. "I'm so sorry."  
 You keep it together until you are back home, then you break down. Your sobbing is heartbreaking. Mary holds you, trying to calm you down, and the cat is also there. "You can't leave me", you whisper to her. "First him, now you. Why does the universe hate me so much?!" She had no answer, neither have I. I'm also there, embracing you, but you can't see me.

Mary is not the woman she used to be anymore, it is like all of her happiness has been taken away. Of course it has. Her time is ticking and she knows it. She used to be full of joy, you haven't seen a real smile on her lips for weeks.  
 A month is quick, just thirty days. You sit at her bed, clutching her hand as she dies. You can't believe it. She made it three days longer than a month, but what does it matter? The days could have been weeks, even months, but you know this was the best for her.  
 She doesn't become a spirit like I did, she is ready to move on. I was not, I still ain't.  
 The funeral is simple. It is you, a few of her friends -whom you never got to know- and the cat. Of course the cat is there., you brought it. You don't speak, you just whisper a goodbye.

You're worse, the limp is back again. Her belongings are still in the flat, now gathering dust just as much as mine.  
 You often talk to the cat, he's your only company. Sometimes you cry together, but mostly it's just talking.  
 You keep your gun clean, just in case. Sometimes you visit ST Bart's, but you can never bring yourself to do it, to jump.   
 Now and then Mrs. Hudson pays you a visit, but never for long. She's a kind soul, she knows you need to be alone.  
 It's been almost a year now. A year since the fall. You visit my grave, this time you leave two red roses. "One for myself", you silently say. That is when I understand. "How fitting, Sherlock. The same day, just a year later. I'm joining you."

You arrive home and find a rope. You take one of the wooden chairs from the kitchen. You take a long time when making the snare. You want it to be perfect. You hang the rope in the hook where you once fastened a lamp because we needed light in our flat. "Perfect", you say to yourself.  
 You stand on the chair and put the snare around your neck. That is when your phone starts ringing. You sigh, it's Lestrade.  You step down from the chair, sending the detective inspector a text. [Don't let Mrs Hudson into the flat. Goodbye, Greg.]  Then you turn your phone off, that was your note.  
 You are ready to tip the chair. That's when the cat jumps up and sits down at your feet. "Down boy!" you say to it. "Not now!" It doesn't jump down. You sigh and for the second time you step down from your place on the chair. You lift the cat up in your arms, petting its head. You leave it outside the door to the flat, knowing Mrs. Hudson will take care of it. "Goodbye, Sherlock", you say to it. Then you lock the door.  
 You are ready, there's nothing more now to prevent it from happening. "I love you, Sherlock",  are your last words.

We watch Lestrade break into the flat, finding your body. He will be mourning you, but he will go on with his life. The same goes for Mrs. Hudson. She will put all of our stuff in boxes, giving them to Mycroft who will keep them somewhere at the diogenes club. Then she'll clean the flat, and soon there will be others living there. Sitting in the chairs we once sat in. Sleeping in the same beds we did. There will no longer be thumps in the fridge or eyes in the microwave. She'll miss it, that little extra we gave her.   
 We attend your funeral. It's a small one. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even Mycroft pays a visit. Mike and Sarah are there too. Harry is not, nor are your parents. The cat is also there, Mrs. Hudson brought it.   
They will move on with their lives. Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Mrs Hudson has her sister and a business to take care of. Molly has her work, and so have Mike, Sarah and Mycroft. Maybe they will gather around a table some day in the future, talking about 'the old times'. The times when John and Sherlock helped Lestrade solving crimes. They will laugh and they will cry, but after a while the details will get blurry. We won't be able to correct the stories or refresh their minds, we won't be there, we'll have moved on, because that's what life is all about.

I grab your hand and give you a smile, because now we are ready. We can finally move on.

**Author's Note:**

> Woops.. I broke my own heart whilst writing this.  
> Feedback and Kudos are appreciated.
> 
> (Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters except for the cat. Rights to BBC and sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  
> The book with clouds on its cover is -of course- 'the fault in our stars' by John Green.  
> 


End file.
